Barrett's Blog, page 9

Tragedy and Triumph

Tuesday October 30, 2012 will be remembered as the day after Hurricane Sandy slammed into the east coast of the United States and combined with two other weather systems to create what is called, a “Perfect Storm”.

We are still reeling from from the reports and photos of the devastation and some of us are more concerned than ever about global warming.

At the same time, we are near the end of a difficult and nasty political fight. Hopefully next week at this time, it will nearly be over. Most of us have serious election campaign fatigue. I know I do. I’m done being assailed by political ads and lies.

So…it is with a big grin on my face that I can share the new cover for the second edition of Damaged in Service!

I don’t have an exact date, but Soon!  Stop by  Bedazzled Ink

This does not soften any of the bad news, but it means the world to me! More news when I get it!

Stay safe and warm, hold fast to your loved ones. Barrett

Nano’s Coming!!

Well folks, NaNoWriMo is nearly upon us—nine days! And you’ll be relieved to know that I have my lucky coffee cup. Here’s the deal. I started this challenge in 2005 and only finished 25,000 words… Because, I was writing in longhand. The writing wasn’t hard, but the word count was a Bitch. The next year I finished with the requisite 50K and rewarded myself with a tee shirt. The following year the prize was a shiny red coffee mug with the words “National Novel Writing Month” emblazoned on one side and “Can’t Talk Noveling.” on the other side. My secret weapon. I’ve used it every year and won every year.

Earlier this year… Tragedy struck. First the handle broke off, but I glued it back on. And then one fateful day I bumped it against the counter and it’s smashed into a bazillion pieces. I was sure I would never write again.

In desperation, I wrote a letter to the Office of Letters and Light–Nano headquarters. I knew that the awards changed every year but held out a slim hope that there might be a few red mugs somewhere.

Within a short time I received an answer from the office manager telling me there might be one sitting around as a pencil cup and he would send it to me. You may not believe me, but the heavens opened and I heard music.

Alas, weeks went by and no package. There was an e-mail from the O.L.L. describing the chaotic move of their office. “Well… I guess the coffee mug got lost in the shuffle.” I wrote an e-mail to that effect and once again was assured that it must’ve been delayed.

More time passed and I sent my donation, as I promised, but no red shiny mug appeared. With sadness in my heart, I sent a note to the infinitely witty Tim Kim. “I guess it wasn’t meant to be, but thank you.”

He responded: “Agh, that’s terrible! Thankfully, one of our fantastic staff members has donated his mug to your cause, and we’ll be shipping it out again today.I hope this one reaches you safely, and that it appeases your muses! Please, please let me know if this one doesn’t make it to you either, oof.”

 Last Saturday, once again, the heavens opened and I heard music. And found a box in my mail. It was in fact a shiny red mug! I cannot tell you that joy that package brought me, not only for the bright shiny coffee mug that greets me each morning, but also for the bright, hardworking staff.

“NaNoWriMo is run by a tiny but mighty nonprofit called the Office of Letters and Light. OLL’s other programs include: Camp NaNoWriMo and Young Writers program”

This will be my seventh year; I have at least ten manuscripts waiting in various stages of completion. Two of those have already been published in two more are contracted.

So, thank you, Tim Kim and a wonderful crew at the Office of Letters and Light (http://store.lettersandlight.org ) from another very grateful writer.

Barrett & Her Muses

PS if you want to write a novel, there’s still time to sign up!    NaNoWriMo

Memorial

Eternal Rest, Margaret.

On this date, October 22nd, for forty-four  years I pause to remember one of the greatest gifts in my Life. My Mom.

My brother and I lost one of the greatest examples of love and tolerance there ever was.  Whatever small amount of grace and compassion I possess, came directly from her.

She was a beautiful and talented woman who adored children, was quick to laugh, and loved her son and daughter unconditionally. She died too young and never knew how much my brother and I learned, appreciated, and tried to be like her.

I never knew how much I would regret not being able to tell her what she meant to me. And she never knew that I escaped my “misspent youth” to become a successful, productive member of society; that I would provide care and understanding to thousands in my career–that would make her proud; that I would create new dreams and live into them.

I hope you are proud of your legacy, Mom.

Extra! Friday funnies

Friday Blog

This is an unplanned bonus!

For those of you who have dogs, you know there’s a difference between the bark for announcement: “mom,there might be a strange dog running through the front yard” and “uh oh, something in the driveway I don’t recognize”. Since my office is at the far end of the house, I rarely jump up every time one of the dogs barks. This morning I thought I recognized the second type of bark and went out to find two cars (one is a rarity) coming up the driveway. Much to my surprise and consternation, it was the police. The county police and the town police. Gulp.

“Busted”

Within a nanosecond, I remembered why—the panic button. Whoops. Let me back up. Several weeks ago, I had a rather freaky accident that scared the bejesus out of me. When my breathing return to normal and my brain was fully oxygenated, I decided to spend some money on one of those “help I’ve fallen and I can’t get up buttons”. I hoped it would be a little bit like carrying an umbrella—if you have it you’ll never need it.

I’ve been pretty good about wearing it around my neck or sticking it in my pocket and today the inevitable happened. I was leaning against the sink fixing coffee and heard a voice. Evidently, I had pushed the button and from my jacket pocket of voice was saying “hello… hello… hello”. Naturally, I panicked and started pushing buttons to make it stop. “Well that’s embarrassing,” I thought.

10 minutes later, the dog barking ensued. And I was mortified. Busted! I scurried outside apoplectic and apologetic. “I’ll bet I’m in big trouble,” said I.

“Are you all right?” two female officers asked in tandem. “It’s no problem as long as you’re okay.”

A brief repentant conversation continued. I explained the situation and promised that should I ever do that again I will simply talk to the operator instead of hanging up. They were very nice and after I went and the house stayed in the driveway yakking for another 10 minutes. Perhaps they didn’t know each other and were just gossiping or they stayed long enough to burn the vision of two patrol cars into my retinas.

Good news is the button works and actual people will respond even if I can’t talk. The bad news was I’d rather not meet my local police officers looking like a complete Duffus.

In local news: the bright sunny fall weather has been interrupted for the last couple of days by large ribbons of smoke blowing from the North West. When the wind died this morning, the smell of smoke was in the air once again.

When I checked,  there were fires burning in the Jemez Mountains, about 75 miles northwest of here. It turns out to be a prescribed burn west of the Valles Caldera and Los Alamos. So far, it’s under control.

That’s all the news for this week folks. Enjoy your weekend!

“Serenity Acres”

Short story by request number four…

“I can’t see out the window. You’ll have to turn my chair the other way… No. Turn it this way.”

Even from the desk at the nurses’ station, I could hear her voice. Grating, familiar, carping. We believed the stroke would be fatal, but once again, my mother surprised us all.

“I understand it’s your policy that new patients share a room, and I think socializing is important. I just think isolating her will save you a lot of work in the long run because my mother can be… Very difficult.”

Crash.

“I said prune juice, not orange. Get me the manager!”

The headache began just where it always did, at the base of my skull. “I’d better go, I’ll stop the desk on my way out. Oh, and… Would you let me know when my father arrives?”

“… I still can’t see out the window. This blanket it isn’t warm enough I need another one, but before you go—”

“Hello, mother.”

She just stared as if I was speaking a foreign language then turned to face the window, without responding.

“It’s good to see you. I see you’ve wasted no time endearing yourself to every staff member on every shift.”

I pulled a chair over to her right side—to be sure she could see and hear me and took the blanket the aide brought her. “Thank you, I’m sure mother is very grateful for all your hard work.”

“You don’t have to speak for me, I’m perfectly capable. Besides, that woman might be the laziest person in this whole hospital. I don’t even know if she speaks English, all she does is mumble.”

“As I told you yesterday and the day before and the day before that, this is not a hospital, it’s Serenity Acres, a popular senior retirement center.”

“I don’t care what you call it, I don’t like it, and I want to go home. And besides, since when do you make all the decisions?”

The headache was getting worse. “Ever since you signed a Medical Power of Attorney five years ago, which you seem to have forgotten.”

“Clearly that was a big mistake, you haven’t made much of your own life, I don’t know why I expected you to be able to make decisions for me.”

I think my brain is splitting in two. “Just a reminder, we filled out the papers after you had your first stroke. That was the happy occasion when you lost your ability to speak for an all too brief time.”

“Nonsense. That never happened. Where’s that waitress with my juice?”

“She’s a nurse’s aide, not a waitress and I’ll go check.”

The head nurse was waiting at the solarium entrance. “Ms. Bane, we showed your father his room and Delia is bringing him down to the solarium. Do you think they’ll be glad to see each other?”

“I have no idea.”

“You understand that your father has limited speaking ability?”

“Yes, the doctor went over the tests with me. I don’t expect much improvement but hope he’ll be comfortable. He’s not eligible for a heart transplant.” I stifled a smile as the Imp of the Perverse with me muttered wisecracks about my father never having a heart to begin with. “I’ll take him the rest of the way, thanks.”

With the air of triumph, I wheeled my father’s wheelchair across the linoleum in the solarium until he sat facing the woman he divorced 20 years earlier. I locked the chair, resumed my seat, and carefully waited for the reactions.

Shortly after I graduated from college, my father announced his plan to change jobs and move north to the city. The plans did not include my mother or me. I remembered feeling nothing but relief. It seemed to me they fought and bickered from most of my childhood. College had been the happiest time in my life. To my young mind, their separation seemed like a good idea. Maybe they would be happier.

The two granite faces I saw today confirmed what I grew to understand: these two people would never be happy.

It took a full minute or more before my mother’s eyes narrowed. “What’s he doing here?”

“I thought I would surprise you both. Since dad’s heart failure happened just after you had your stroke, I’ve been spending way too much time in the car checking on each of you. This way, it will be much easier for me.”

My mother started to sputter and flap her left arm ineffectively. A bubble of joy rose in my chest. I glanced at my father who seem to be working very hard to figure out where he was and who the woman was flapping her arm at him.

“Maude?”

Silence. She stopped moving.

“Yes, it’s Maude. Long time no see. I think it must be about 21 years since you’ve seen each other.”

“Get that lying cheating bastard out of here!” she screeched.

“I’m afraid we can’t do that. Given how you both squandered your money, this is the best I could afford for you so you’ll just have to make the best of it.”

He groaned. She flapped her arm.

“I refuse to stay under the same roof. What would possess you to think this was a good idea? Get the manager! I want him out of here.” Her face was red and puffy.

“You’ll need to settle down, mother, after all think what this is doing to your blood pressure. You don’t want to have another stroke do you?”

I heard my father chuckle, as he shook his head and mumbled, “I don’t know why I didn’t leave sooner. That woman is crazy.”

“Oh, look at the time. Tonight is our famous seafood extravaganza at the restaurant. It’s insanely popular. I need to get over there to make sure everything is in order. And you’re pretty lucky too, the administrator told me that Friday’s are when they serve Tuna Casserole Surprise. I arranged for you to be at the same table for all your meals so that you would have plenty of time to catch up. You must have so much to talk about.”

This time my father started to sputter and my mother sneered. “You can’t do this. I have rights I’ll get my lawyer—”

“Actually I can and I have. I have the Power Of Attorney for both of you. Don’t fret, your doctor has prescribed medications for your mood swings.So have a nice evening, and enjoy that tuna casserole.”

An immense wave of relief rippled over me as I walked across the parking lot. I looked back at the broad glass solarium windows back-lit by the glow of fluorescent light. Harold and Maude Bane sat captive in their wheelchairs in what might seem like purgatory for two intractably cranky individuals who had kept me hostage to their demands for most of my life.

The weighty sheaves of resentment and responsibility slid off my weary shoulders and I put the car in reverse.

The End

Next time on Little Theater, NM camping adventures…

First thoughts on Waking

…Doesn’t that sound like a great literary treatise? In actuality, not so much.

Blog request number three:     Michelle Brooks: My creative monkeys* want to hear about what you think about when you first wake up in the morning and/or what you think about as you drift off to sleep at night.

***  

Since my muse insists on flitting around like a dervish today, I’m having a hard time focusing on the edits I need to do. And I thought, given my state of mind, it might be easier to tackle Michelle’s somewhat difficult query. I seriously doubt the answer will be as earth shaking or pithy as she might imagine but I’m willing to give it a try.

That said, you must understand that the periods of day she suggested are probably the most nebulous of the 24-hour cycle. Well, I suppose the actual dreams I have maybe more questionable.

Interestingly, a lot of my writing and pre-writing can happen during those “real” times. I say real because for me those of the times of day (especially early morning) when I am most unguarded and authentic. I am vulnerable and open to the universe.

I think my first awareness is usually that I am “aware” of my surroundings. Even before I move or open my eyes, I sort of calibrate. I do a scan of sorts. Am I a comfortable? Is it too hot or too cold? Is there a dog near me [there should be one or two]? Does anything hurt? Do I have to pee? Once the questions are answered, I slip back a notch mentally into that in between state and allow my mind to wander.

Some days there are actually tasks I need to plan, which I do and then work backwards to see how much time I need. I don’t like those days so much.

The best times are when I am, let’s call it—In Project. If I’m working on a new story, this is the time I can mentally drift back into the scene I’m working on and watch it play out. It’s a little bit like remembering a TV show you watched before bed. Only I direct this one. At the end of the day, I try to quit writing in the middle of an important scene. It makes it easier to pick up the action. The scene plays out while I casually observe. (Remember, I’m not fully awake, I’m sort of drowsing or floating. I wouldn’t be able to figure out a math problem, for example.)

This may last ½ hour or more while I play out different scenarios and “what-if” the next scene or two. By that time, the adrenaline has started to flow and I want to get to writing.

However, If I’m doing revisions for edits… I think of other things  to forestall the time before I have to sit down at my desk and start work.

A Real place I dream,Belize

Now, it’s not always about writing. Sometimes, I just curl up and daydream about vacation, plans for the weekend, or any other flight of ideas until a drift off again.

 

Part Two.Last thoughts before sleeping.

This is much less creative, because I’ve generally been “in the day/world” for so many hours. Most nights, I’m exhausted by the time I close everything up and walk the dogs. My ritual is to get comfortable and review a list of things for which I’m grateful and drift into the arms of Morpheus. Often that requires some mantra-repetition—like the Serenity Prayer. And sometimes I have to repeat it ad nauseum, until my mind settles. Some nights I don’t get through one without nodding off.

As if…

That is not usually time for my imagination to fly. On occasion, I’ve read or seen something that is still ruminating. On rarer occasions, especially when I’m working on a new project, I’ll review a problematical scene just before I go to sleep, with the hope it will sort itself out. And it often does.

That was certainly elucidating! Perhaps you’ve nodded off by now too. If that were the case, I would highly recommend reading this Blog before bed. Sorry I couldn’t fill it with some Erotic adventures. Hmm, but maybe that would be a good idea for next time.

Thanks for the question…

* creative monkeys   Now This subject ( I call them Sock Monkeys and anyone who knows me, knows the Evil that are “them”), I could do a week’s worth of blogs on. Maybe that will be next.

Everything you wanted… ;)

Another one of the blog topic suggestions came from Jane Devin. Since she already knows something about New Mexico, she thought I should write something about sex. Yes, SEX. She even suggested it twice, so I have to assume she thinks that’s an important topic, or she believes that I’m some kind of expert. [insert: cackling and guffawing sounds] Silly.

Alas, never one to shirk one’s duties I’ll give it a go.

Having spent the bulk of my professional career working as a registered nurse, I know a thing or two about sex—mostly the clinical aspects, though. I did spend a couple of years doing clinical trials for HIV treatments and in the course of interviewing patients, learned a little bit more about things…heretofore unknown to me. I also volunteered as a CASA (court appointed special advocate). Sadly, this part of my education was into the darkest most tragic aspects of sexual deviancy. Not so fun.

So let’s not talk about clinical stuff.

More apropos to the subject would be my latest reinvention as a fictioneer [writer of fiction], specifically romance. That challenge has proved itself a tough row to hoe. Those familiar with the task of writing a compelling romance understand the difficulty of walking the thin line between romantic fiction and erotica. Given the popularity of the latest bestseller,which shall remain nameless, I probably should have chosen erotica/porn for a profitable career.

Let’s agree on some basics: Sex Is a Good Thing and Sex Sells.

When Maslow described his hierarchy,  at the very base, along with breathing, food, water, sleep, homeostasis, excretion, —you guessed it, sex! It ranked before security of: body, employment, resources, morality, the family, health, and property. So it must be something that we all value to a greater or lesser degree.

I think we can safely say Romance is a very popular subject. It’s a theme often found in books, movies, songs, operas, paintings, and every form of advertising. The way our legislators bandy about women’s rights, there’s hardly a day that goes by without mentions of birth control, abortion, or vaginal probes (good lord). Still as a writer, I’m always cognizant that my characters need to be authentic, three-dimensional human beings and that I must pay attention to their needs wants and desires. This is not only because it makes the stories more realistic, but also because readers want to pick up a book and become invested in the story and the characters.

My job is to create stories that have those elements, which frequently involve flirting, true romance, love and the consummation of their passion. It’s tricky. I don’t wanna teach anatomy and physiology. I also don’t want to provide a trail of bread crumbs without a resolution.

Teasing is a mean.

Most of the time I create situations and allow the characters to move the dial—up or down, according to their whims. Sometimes I’m surprised that a casual conversation in the kitchen suddenly ends up in the bedroom or a romantic conversation ends up in an argument. You never can tell.

Two years ago I heard a keynote address by a well regarded romance writer,                  KG MacGregor, who challenged us to push the boundaries in our writing. To write more realistic, more diverse, and more interesting characters. We are a diverse country with literally millions of unique individuals to draw from. The age old stereotypes for romantic characters are falling by the wayside. And we must believe at one time or another, virtually every human being experiences love, romance, desire, and… Sex.

So for my writer friends out there, take up the challenge and stretch your boundaries. For all of the wonderful readers who keep us tied to our desks, look for new stories and new authors. You may be pleasantly surprised.

Why New Mexico?

In response to my query for blog topics, I received some wonderful suggestions and promised to acknowledge those responsible.

Since five people nominated “New Mexico” as a topic, I thought I’d begin there. Mary Anne Frett asked what prompted me to move here, well all righty!

I was born and raised in Illinois and after graduating from nursing school virtually flipped a coin on where to practice, New Mexico or Wisconsin. I selected those two because New Mexico was vast and had one area code.

Wisconsin on the other hand, was my childhood vacationland. Many summers were spent on the wonderful lakes in Wisconsin. In my memory, those were idyllic times. So that was my first choice. Bought a small lake cottage, fixed it up, and worked in the local hospital. My brother came to visit and stayed. He married and raised a family so everything was fine.

A good friend and medical colleague moved to New Mexico and invited me to visit. When I got off the plane in Albuquerque and saw the horizon and the mountains, I knew I would retire here.

I visited them regularly, 2 to 3 times a year for four years. On each visit, I learned more and more about this hidden gem. My friend showed me the highlights and I rented a car to see other areas of the state. The rugged beauty of the vast areas that were uninhabited fascinated me. It was easy to imagine life and the west 100 years ago.

There was also the strong history of three cultures working and living together. Native American pueblos are prevalent along the Rio Grande and in the four corners area northwest of Albuquerque. (New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, Colorado—the only place in the United States were four states meet). Although archaeologists have evidence dating back to 9200 BC, history was only recorded after the conquistadores arrived in the 16th century.

Lieutenant Zebulon Pike, exploring for rivers in 1806, stumbled into Santa Fe and was arrested and taken to Chihuahua, Mexico. As you may or may not know, there were bunches of Pueblo uprisings, Mexican revolutions, and all manner of conflict. You know, everybody wants to own a piece of something, especially if it belongs to someone else; even more so if that someone else has a different color skin, or uniform, or weapons, or animals, etc. etc..

Eventually the United States Congress established the New Mexico Territory on September 9, 1850. So here come the settlers. So, you have three groups of people staking a claim and fussing with each other. The soldiers and the missionaries were left to sort it out.

Enough history. I believe it was the winter of 1998 when my part of Wisconsin had three months without sun.Ninety friggin’ grey days! That was it. Much thought,  planning, decision-making and I resigned from the allergy clinic that I was running, put my house on the market, put everything I owned in a small truck headed for New Mexico and packed my car. I said goodbye to my family and friends loaded my faithful Labrador, Murphy (RIP my pal, 2004), in the car and drove west.

(Oh by the way, two weeks prior to that, I had major abdominal surgery and what with all the packing boxes and moving furniture, I ended up with a hernia. There was no time to repair it because everything was on its way to New Mexico. So, shortly after I arrived I was in the hospital for hernia repair.)

I stayed with my friends for several months until I could find a place to live and a job. And that was 14 years ago.

Yes, I do miss the grass, the trees, and most of all the lakes, but in Mexico is where I want to be. 350 days of sunshine, a temperate climate with warm summer days, and enough snow to have four seasons. Best of all, no mosquitoes, no leaves to rake, no gutters to clean, no grass to cut and no trees to obstruct the view. Mountains on two sides. Endless blue skies. Fresh clean air. Endless quiet. And peace.

Operation:Disrupt Routines

After pondering several blog ideas, I decided to talk about routine and the value of having certain patterns in ones day. I think this is especially important for artistic folks. Of the writers I know, some like to start their writing very early in the morning before the busyness of the day interferes. Some like to write late into the night when all is quiet. But most have some sort of routine.

For my purposes, a routine is a pattern or sequence of events that are preplanned, orderly, and comfortable. It’s a method of de-stressing the brain so that I can go on autopilot and accomplish the tasks at hand. Now, I’m only guessing here, but for those that are very neat and orderly such as, Type-A personalities, or OCD, or pathological neat-freakism, these routines are probably sacrosanct.

On the other hand, there’s another type of personality that is less about order and more about utility. I’m afraid I land in that camp. I’m sort of a right-brained free-flowing spirit who is blessed with a very good memory so I’m able to get things done on my own floating schedule without a lot of preplanning or distress. Yes, I know, I’m very lucky.

This is the part where want to talk about writing because this is my third lifetime career or avocation. The third act of my lifetime. Since I retired, I have avoided constraints or daily obligations. I can plan each day as I wish; I have the freedom to change the plan when I want.

           Okay, don’t everyone pile on, your day will come.

Since I started writing on a regular professional basis, I formulated a loose regimen. Although I don’t use an alarm clock, I generally wake between seven and eight in the morning, get up, take care of the morning routine for the dogs and me, then gradually move into my office/craft room, and turn on the computer. From there I check the news, Facebook, e-mails and finish my breakfast and coffee. Then I choose the most pressing project.

When I’m in the midst of writing a new story—that takes priority over everything and generally that’s the engine that drives the machine. I write as long as the story keeps flowing, take breaks—but I’ll continue all day or into the evening if necessary. I try to end the day in the middle of an important scene and then save everything. By doing that, the story continues to ferment as I go about my other activities. By the next morning, my thoughts have solidified and I’m anxious to get back to it.

Okay, that’s “the plan”. However, for the past six-months, I’ve been working on revisions, which is a different animal altogether— for me at least, it’s much more difficult. Free-floating ideas come easily but the fine-tuning is usually much more difficult mostly because it involves left-brain instead of the right. Alternating between the two is sometimes difficult for me.

Anyway, all this to say that the “routine” usually helps. I don’t know anyone who isn’t challenged to maintain their creative output when the routine is disrupted. The slightest deviation can throw a wrench in the works. A phone call, an e-mail, a knock at the door, dogs barking, and even strange noises from the kitchen will definitely interrupt The flow.

I chose this topic (I know, is she ever gonna get to the point?) because, this summer has been one “wrench” after another. Traveling visitors, acts of nature, house sitters, cross-country trips, and mishaps have all played a role in distracting me from my goals and disrupting my routine. Most people, I think, would describe me as flexible, free-flowing, and easy-going. Well. Surprise, I’ve become rather set my ways and I do not like distractions. Not one bit.

I have a half-dozen writing projects in various stages of readiness, and the interruptions have made it difficult to concentrate on any one of them for very long; so I hop from one to the other — which is not the ideal way to focus. I’m looking forward to November and NaNoWriMo. (write 50,000 words in 30 days) For at least a month, I set myself to the singular task of ONE project. I’m hoping it will give me a chance to reboot and exercise those muscles once again (as it has for the last five years). I’m convinced this will be easier to do with a new roof, new windows, and the specter of hailstorms firmly cataloged as a past event. In the meantime, I have two manuscripts getting ready for publication and third ready for the final revision.

This week the repairs began on the house. I’m astonished that phone calls and visits from repairman and insurance estimators have been so upsetting. This has been an ordeal I do not wish to repeat.Once everything has been cleaned up and my things back in place, hopefully. I’ll feel a little more stable and focused.

So for now, I’ll say adieu, I’m off to town to meet with some ladies for lunch—a welcome distraction! Wish me luck.

Writers and Grass

You like that eye-grabbing title? Now, if I could only keep the content as compelling. You see, that’s the job of a writer!

That’s not really where I wanted to go with this. See, I spent time this weekend thinking about the nature and nurture of this new mantle I have donned  as a “writer” or author, novelist, scribe. For the last ten plus years, I’ve been scribbling stories to entertain myself and the fact is, with the exception of one about a nurse, every story entertains me. I reassure myself regularly if that if I decide not publish my work I’d still be happy and I think I would. However, working as a published writer has provided some unexpected perks. Of course, I’m thrilled my work is selling and even happier that people like it.

I’ve met hundreds other readers and writers with whom to share stories and ideas. Even after two years, I’m tickled every time I get an e-mail or comment from a reader saying they just picked up one of my books and liked the story, or the characters, or the scenery, or whatever. I know it sounds silly, but it still surprises me. I have been especially touched by the people who have written to say that my story resonated on a very deep level because of personal experience or that of a loved one. Those are the ones that mean the most.

So, it isn’t just about entertainment. The deeper we go as writers the closer we get to our readers. I can think of a half dozen books right now that touched me so deeply that I can still feel the impact even if at this moment, I can’t describe why or how it touched me. It’s an uncanny connection we form between the writer and the reader.

Here’s another surprising I’ve learned. I’m not the only introvert who writes books!               I Know, shocking.                                                                                                               First, I want to be clear: Introverts are not necessarily shy, they may be very outgoing. Conversely: Extroverted individuals may be very shy. Introversion/extroversion has to do with “energy” not shyness. I’m a pretty enthusiastic person and I love talking to people and having a good time, frequently I’m the last one to leave the party. However… It absolutely exhausts me! A Daylong event or long evening will put me on the couch for an entire day. Seriously. I can’t speak to the reaction of other introverts but I can say that an amazing number of very talented writers are either introverts or very shy. Trust me.

Why is this important? Because as an author, it falls to me to promote not only my books but myself in order to reach more people who may be interested in my work. Even the effort of blogging, or actively participating in other social media such as: Goodreads, Face Book, Twitter, list serves, professional organizations, or even local groups demands an exhausting number of hours of interacting. Need.More.Sleep. More quiet, more “down time”.

With that amount of exposure and interaction, it seems like we’re all one big happy family. And, in a sense, we are. Here’s the sticky wicket: “virtual” friends and family provide a wonderful community but are not the same as hands on in person relationships. Some of us are very private people and most of us are very protective of our personal lives. I respect the privacy of my peers, many of whom I consider good friends. I also respect the privacy of my readers who may have shared personal information with me. I consider this nothing more or less than Good Manners.                                      

(if this picture was anyone but GB, I would consider it a Boundary Issue)

Virtual anonymity provides access we are not privy to in real life. It works, only if we all respect those boundaries. Physical boundaries are easier to understand in the context of face-to-face meetings. How close do you stand to perfect strangers when you’re speaking to them, 2 feet?  3 feet or more? And just what kind of questions would you be comfortable answering? Just some food for thought…

Now the teasingly tauntingly topic of “grass” < snickering>  I was quite literally referring to grass. Blue grass, fescue, crab, or prairie. Since the wind driven hailstorm 10 days ago strafed the high desert around my house (and the roof, fascia boards, and windows) I’m once again looking at green grass budding.  

When I lived in the Midwest, it was a big deal to thatch the lawn every year to get rid of the dry dead undergrowth so new grass could grow. Well, that’s exactly what all those little ice crystals did. Giant weed whacker. Cleared away the old growth so that new little blades of grass could grow. It’s thrilling. If we continue to get little more rain, there will be new flora for the bugs, the birds, and all the other critters.

Sorry for the ramble  

If you’d like something much funnier and even craftier, get yourself a copy of  “Sidecar” by Ann McMan or AMFA               (‘zat okay?)

Thanks for stopping by hope you have a good week.